


Slow Burn of Tennessee Rye

by queenklu



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-15
Updated: 2010-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:16:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenklu/pseuds/queenklu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You licked. My thumb."</p><p>(Written because of a totally true occurrence at a gig in Portland. No, really.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Burn of Tennessee Rye

**Author's Note:**

> HAND!PORN! Started because Chris and Steve are boyfriends, finished because of hermette's Fuck Yeah Friday prompt! (un-beta-ed for the same reason--i'm going camping, i have no time for things like ~grammar.)

Steve backed him hard against the wall, brick snagging his shirt tight across his chest, and Chris rumbled a non-verbal _hell yeah_ low in his belly as he snugged his hips up against Steve’s. “No. _No,_ Kane _…_ ” Steve caught the hands Chris had roaming for skin and held his wrists between silver and turquoise, digging in with the heels of his palms. “What. Are. You. Doing?”

“Looked good out there tonight,” Chris hummed when he could get his tequila- and adrenaline-dizzy head to pull attention from guitar-rough calluses sliding over his pulse. His throat felt dry, voice roughed up from singing and the taste of Steve still on his tongue. “Love watchin’ you, man.”

“You’ve never learned the word _subtle_ ,” Steve sighed, a soft shutter-flutter of his eyes as he got an arm around Chris’s shoulders and hauled him upright. Christian had learned to work a ferocious scowl, though, and he deployed one as soon as their hips stopped touching. His jeans felt cool against his thighs, too tight over his dick, and Steve’s hands were bunching up the fabric in his shirt under his arm and across his belly.

“The hell’re _you_ doin’?” Chris growled when the scowl did jack shit. He couldn’t even see Steve’s hands, and after tonight—

“Getting your drunk ass to the hotel, what do you think?”

“Not fucking drunk,” he snapped, shoving Steve off him just to prove it; he could walk just fine, god damn it. He was just checking the wall to make sure it was still there. And besides—now he could drink them in, drink him all in. Steve’s sweat and the tang of guitar strings still slicked the back of his teeth.

Steve’s eyes had gone cobalt in the dimmed backstage lights, and Christian caught himself wishing Steve didn’t know that he never did shit he didn’t mean, ever. Anyone else would’ve socked him by now, or written it off as a fluke.

“You licked. My thumb.”

Hell yeah, he had. That thumb, there, the one curling in toward Steve’s palm. The air in Chris’s lungs puffed out his lips as it bid adios, just like it had back on stage when he’d got stuck studying the curve of where Steve’s thumb fit against the neck of his guitar. Chris’d thought it’d fit real well against…anything: cheekbone, throat, chin, tanned hip of some girl riding him hard and putting him up wet, E-string callus shoving her right on over the edge as it slid against her clit.  

Or over the head of Christian’s dick, chubbed up nice and fat now in his jeans. Yeah, Steve could push his hand in there and wrap each of those beautiful musical fingers around Chris’s cock and get him off in one stroke if he twisted right, if he played the right chord.

…It was possible he was maybe a little bit drunk.

Chris dug his fingertips into the brick and let his hair fall in his eyes where it’d worked free of the tie. He’d lost his hat somewhere, and one of his grey gloves was missing. The hell.

“Uhh,” he chuckled, because Steve was the kind of guy who waited for an answer to a question like that. (Even a question Chris couldn’t quite remember.) “I like hands.”

“I know.” He did know. Fuck. “Like my hands in particular?”

“Jesus Christ.” Steve did this, this, this face thing when he got in touch with his California side, the inner feelings psycho babble _shit_ he pulled when he talked people out of doing something stupid. Which Chris was not doing. Or falling for. Had he completely blacked out the gig in Portland?

“Yeah,” he snarled, and backed Steve right into a pyramid of sound equipment, catching his hands as Steve raised them to fend him off and pressing his thumbs right in the soft cradle of Steve’s palms. Chris caught a glimpse of shocked sky blue, right before he got his mouth on Steve’s ring finger.

They tensed in and against his mouth, dry fingertips pressing on the wet seam of his lips but not sliding in, and Chris closed his eyes and didn’t care. Sweat and copper and Steve flooded his mouth, his tongue following the grooves of each knuckle, teeth nipping at the hidden calluses.

Steve cursed tight and breathless, almost pained. Which was just plain— Chris snapped his eyes open and glared— _What the fuck is your problem?—_ got a hand on Steve’s belly and pushed, ordered, _breathe._ All his music was in there, knotted up tight in the muscles of his diaphragm. Chris hollowed his cheeks and sucked.

He used to think he knew exactly how to play Steve like the strings of a guitar, but he’d never been good at tuning. Steve tuned his guitar before every gig, and that wasn’t even a fucking euphemism. Chris knew how to play; Steve knew how to make him play _well._

So it was really god damned annoying that Steve seemed determined to give him sour notes.

Chris dragged the finger from his mouth but kept the hand, smearing his quickly cooling spit as he fixed Steve with a stare. “Just what is the hang-up, sweetheart?”

Steve’s lip curled, a quick goodbye to the sweet California boy. “You’d really fuck us up like this, wouldn’t you? You’d blow me in the back of some dive and never look back, never look at me again.”

Chris grit his teeth. “That what you want?”

“ _Fuck_ no!”

“Then it wouldn’t happen.” Chris was keeping him pinned pretty well, but he crowded closer just in case, met Steve’s stormy gaze and held tight. “I’d have to—tear my eyes out to stop lookin’ at you. Steve. Steve, I licked your goddamn _thumb._ ”

That had to get through, and it better have because Chris was in this, he was kissing Steve with everything he had, every trick in the book—and got derailed, detoured into the taste of him, the texture, the way Steve’s hand in his clutched tight, tight enough to ache. Steve groaned, not quite music, but sweet enough as Chris got a hand under his shirt to curl around Steve’s hip and jeans and tug him close.

Steve’s head thumped against a stereo when he pulled away, but tough shit—he shouldn’t’ve been going anywhere. He took a look at Chris and said, “I’ll break all your fingers,” like that decided something, then tangled his free hand in Chris’s hair to hold him off; and good lord did Chris not need him knowing what that did to him, not this early in the evening, not with so many clothes in the way. “Greenroom?”

“Hell yeah.”

They moved fast but Chris had his equilibrium back, even though he felt about to vibrate out of his boots. Steve never let go, and Chris never let him, just twisted them around so Chris was wrapped around Steve from behind, knocking the door shut with a lucky kick.

The thought process had been neck, get to the nape of Steve’s neck and press whiskey kisses to the fine damp hair there, but oh. Oh, it was so close to that time in Portland where he’d crowded up close and hooked his chin over Steve’s shoulder to watch his hands while he played, pads of his fingers plucking and caressing the strings. He’d _had_ to kiss him; fuck if it was on the shoulder, it was either there or grabbing Steve and dipping him in the middle of the song, or, in front of hundreds of people with access to camera phones, fall to his knees and nuzzle Steve’s knuckles, which would’ve at the very least fucked up the song.

He bit down on that same shoulder now, not hard enough to really hurt, and whined low in the back of his throat. “No idea what you do to me, baby…”

“Don’t you dare start writing a song about this,” Steve said, but he sounded kind of too breathless to mean it. Really. Chris bit him again and held on this time, kept his arms around Steve as he hit the couch sideways and scooted back on his knees until his ass hit the armrest. “The hell’re you doin’?” Steve asked for the third time that night, guttural now, and Chris growled to shut him up.

He still had Steve’s hand, ring finger damp where it fit between Chris’s and pressed against his sternum, so it was really nothing at all to flick open Steve’s belt and fly while he was distracted with Chris licking the sweat-salty skin under his collar. Chris slid their hands down, brushing over the soft gold trail of hair revealed by the rumpling he’d done of Steve’s shirt, and watched his breathing speed up right under the thundering pulse in his wrist.

“Wanna see you.” Chris was so fucked. The idea spun up through his spine, spilled out in hot pants against Steve’s neck. “You know how to work it. Fuck your hand for me.”

“Shit,” Steve hissed, arching, canting accidentally away from where Chris’s cock had fit in the small of his back. Chris snarled and hauled him back, and Steve huffed but didn’t mean it, almost turned it into an unsteady laugh. “Toppy little son of a bitch, aint you?”

“You get yourself off real pretty for me and I’ll show you little,” Chris promised, without lifting his mouth from the curve of Steve’s shoulder, rolling his hips against the curve of Steve’s back.

“Shit,” Steve breathed again, quieter, but relaxed into Chris as he pushed his jeans down and out of the way, hard beautiful cock jutting against the already damp material of his briefs. Chris inhaled sharp and got a whiff of it, of sex and Steve, and almost had to shut his eyes against the heady spin. Then the elastic shoved down to snug up Steve’s balls and Chris hummed a long dark note into his skin. “God, you’ve really got to not do that,” Steve muttered, tipping his head back against Chris’s shoulder, running his thumb—that god damn thumb—over Chris’s fingers where they tangled with his.

“Make me,” Chris growled automatically, too focused on the sight of Steve’s hand cupping and rolling his balls where they were already so full, round and heavy in his palm. He felt hotter than stage lights, yanked at his clothing with his free gloved hand until his shirt was mostly off and his jeans were undone, and still Steve was teasing, right hand still wrapped up in running maddening circles over the pads of his fingers. Chris rubbed himself in the tangled mess of Steve’s shirt and the sweat pooling in the small of his back because he couldn’t help it, then did it again because it felt so fucking good.

Steve’s voice came out rough and strained and perfect, like when he nailed the high note in a harmony. “Jesus Christ, you’re gonna kill me.” And he wrapped their joined hands around his cock.

It blew Chris’s mind. Nothing was ever as hot in your head as it was in real life, except Steve. God, he was turned on to the tip of each hair, and just from the sight of that thumb rubbing rough and ready over the drooling head of Steve’s cock. Down, under the ridge, smearing all the way and not afraid to use the flat of his nail, curling his thumb so the callus caught just right. Jesus. Every time Chris’s fingers brushed along the pre-come slick length Steve shuddered all over like he didn’t know how to stop.

“Fuck, fuck, you do it.” Suddenly their hands were away and shook apart, Steve’s fingers biting into the space between Chris’s thigh and calf before Chris could feel the cool air on his palm. “Do it now or you won’t get a chance, Kane—“

Chris caught Steve’s head with his own and forced it sideways, made him bare his throat so he could feel the rasp of Chris’s stubble all the way to his ear. “Thousands of chances,” he rumbled, “A thousand and one. _Little tequila…and a broken neon sign…_ ”

He took him in hand, just three fingers to hold him up and get a look at that wet, flushed length of him disappearing into a thatch of dark blond curls, his gloved hand curled protectively over Steve’s heart.

Steve shook in his arms like he’d been hauled from the sea, air coming in shaking gasps as he gripped Chris’s thighs like the only steady thing in a sightline of rolling waves. “Kane, Kane—oh goddamn it Chris—“ His _please_ turned into a whine as he undulated back, rubbing Chris’s cock back against his belly and himself into the too-loose grip of Chris’s hand. Too proud, he’d never say it, but Chris chuckled darkly because he didn’t need to.

He worked him rough, the way Steve had showed him, using his own calluses to unfair advantage just to watch him fall apart, just to hear those hitching sounds caught in the back of Steve’s throat so he could draw them out. He rubbed himself off like a dance he couldn’t help but didn’t care about, wasn’t paying close enough attention until he was suddenly riding the edge with a long way to fall.

Steve twisted and caught his mouth, awkward angle and all, and Chris surged forward to chase the taste of him, didn’t even hardly notice he was coming until the air punched from his lungs and he jerked against Steve, thrumming all over as he absolutely ruined Steve’s stupid little vest thing. One lucky shot made it under his sweat-soaked shirt to splatter between Steve’s shoulderblades, from the shiver and gasped curse that pulled from him, and _mmmmm yeah_ , yeah, just as good as he thought.

Chris slumped back, got his legs out from under him and around Steve until Steve had no choice but to lie back and thrust up, still desperate to come but now completely surrounded and covered in Chris. He hummed into Steve’s hair as he worked him up and over, wove it in and out of the gasps and groans Steve made as he spilled wet and messy over Chris’s hand.

He looked so damn good like this, Chris decided while they came down, music still vibrating in his chest as Steve shook his sweat-darkened hair from his eyes and let his head rest against Chris’s shoulder, both shirts fantastically fucked and his jeans tangled in his cowboy boots. _Best to keep him this way,_ he thought, and nuzzled drowsily at the curve of Steve’s jaw, caught his silver earring between his teeth and tugged, gently, to feel the soft stretch of earlobe under his tongue.

“Oh, no,” Steve growled, trying and failing really badly at disentangling himself, “No you don’t. You bite my ear on stage and there’s no way it’ll go over as anything but epic gay love.”

Chris growled and bit down sharp enough that Steve jerked and twisted to glare at him, and Chris said nice and slow, for the hearing impaired, “ _Licked_. Your. _Thumb_.”

Steve looked damn well floored, which was also a real good look on him. Chris twined their fingers together again and brought them to his smirking mouth.

 

 _So stuff me into a barrel, lock some chains on my hands_  
 _Take me down to the river and send me over the dam_  
 _The way you’re loving me, baby, I can die a happy man_  
 _Yes, I can  
          --Happy Man, Christian Kane_  
. 


End file.
